


The Fall

by sweetie_or_not



Series: The Fall (Stand Alone) [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Based on the show not the book or The Book, Gen, POV First Person, POV Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Thanks for listening to my Ted Talk, Yes Really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetie_or_not/pseuds/sweetie_or_not
Summary: Lucifer spends some time reflecting on his origins, his identity, and how it all ties together to make him who he is today.
Series: The Fall (Stand Alone) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115609
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many amazing ways to interpret and tell this story. I’ve been wanting to write this for a long while. I hope you enjoy my take on how our favorite Devil became that and so much more.
> 
> (Wondering what the intro is alluding to? Why, this is a stand-alone that fits into a series! Make your way over to Learning the Ropes in my works, and take a peek...)

Alone with his thoughts was not a state Lucifer relished. At least, not when the events of the morning, let alone the last few weeks, had left him feeling like he was stuck midway down some unknown path - just as far to make it through as it was to turn back.

He'd gone through the motions of his morning in a distracted haze, before finally realizing this wasn't a state that would dissipate eventually, if he simply refused to acknowledge it for long enough. Things had been shaken loose in his subconscious, memories he had avoided looking directly at for decades, if not centuries. They stubbornly refused to be ignored.

Of course, he'd done an admirable job lately projecting his usual air of nonchalance, unfazed - why I've been doing this kind of thing for  _ years -  _ and it was, to a sufficient degree to uphold his principles, true. But he would be lying if he didn't admit he'd been thrown off by what should have been familiar circumstances, unexpected reactions catching him off guard. Ghosts long since buried and abandoned, their resting places forgotten. Until, somehow, he found himself treading over them, all unwitting.

Not that this was entirely bad; as often as he'd been blindsided, he'd been pleasantly surprised by moments of unexpected clarity. Disjointed pieces that finally had a light shined brightly enough on them that they could meld into a whole. And how long had he left them unexamined?

The Detective knew - of course, almost immediately, she'd started working things out, deducing motives he wasn't even aware of. Though while she understood much of him, and his history, Lucifer knew she hadn't chased the leads to their true origins. He was barely beginning to.

Well, there was clearly nothing else for it.

Lucifer thoughtfully ran his hand along the many leather-bound spines filling his bookshelves. He selected a large, pristine volume, one yet to be filled with the tales and remembrances of countless authors that its companions held in posterity. He made his way to his desk, honestly unsure of the last time he'd sat at it, cracked the book open on a glossy blank page, and began to write…

\-----

How long does one have to exist before the concept of identity becomes meaningless? Before you’ve reinvented yourself enough times that there’s nothing left to change, to learn, nothing you haven’t become? Do you lose yourself?

Or maybe then you finally understand who you are.

I’ve seen myself vilified, redeemed, corrupted, forgiven, reviled and, Dad help me, even loved. But how much of that is someone else’s story, the narrative they’ve told themselves about who I truly am? Just another in a long, played-out history of people defining me to suit their purposes. Sometimes even convincing me of it.

A history truly written by the winners; a way of justifying what comes after. Of deeming someone, say, worthy of an eternity of punishment. “Thinking you can do a better job than Dad” - what a tidy spin they put on it. After they knew full well I didn’t set out to  _ be  _ God, didn’t want  _ no _ God, just one who actually gave a damn about seeing through the things he started. Instead of putting his imperfect creations out in an imperfect world and having the gall to be mad at them when they failed.

But it was our job NOT to question, to blindly accept things the way they were. A critical component of the whole angel rule book, it turns out. And woe to the first to cross that line. Amenadiel’s done it now, even Michael in his way, but back then? Was I the only one created to do so, or the only one naïve enough to try? And, the ultimate celestial offense, to encourage others to think, to ask why. Only an act of aggression to the people you aren’t supposed to be questioning. And when questioning didn’t work, I started demanding. And when that didn’t work, well. You know the story. 

So that was the first time. I went from Samael, the Lightbringer, the favorite son, to the cautionary tale. Banished. Shamed. Despised. I carried that with me into Hell, to serve out my well-deserved sentence. And, oh, did Dad outdo himself there. His son, most gifted with knowledge, free will, intuition, forced to torture those who’d felt they’d earned it for all eternity. And they call me evil.

It was hard, early on. Unbearable. Before I learned to block it out. Knowing so clearly what all those souls wanted most, and being forced to give them the exact opposite. Denying their desperate desires, even if that was just for a moment’s reprieve. It went against every principle I’d ever stood for.

They say Abel was Hell’s first resident? Sometimes I wonder if the whole bloody place wasn’t made just for me.

I tried, I clutched at whatever I could to soothe my aching soul. They deserved to be there, deserved to be punished, as did I. Knowing full well the system was as broken as my sentencing was. That was a long couple centuries, going numb to it all.

But then, oh those clever humans, they started getting into some truly nasty business. Sent some real pieces of work my way, and I latched on. The brightest thing I’d seen in that desolate place. I felt the first spark of my justified fury, the grim satisfaction of a worthy punishment. A way to vent the countless decades of rage that I’d been accumulating, the pain of watching who I’d once been being crushed by the weight of who they’d told me I was.

So I found the punisher. The Lord of Hell. Embraced the legions I’d been given, the demons. Became  _ something _ , glorious and powerful again, instead of a defeated shell. It almost felt like coming home, like finding myself again.

Centuries flew by, who knows how long. I’m not sure at what point I’d been this monster they created longer than I'd been… me. 

Then who does that make  _ me _ ?

But the old rebel was still there, ignited again with newfound purpose. I tested the length of my chains, the strength of my bonds. And I found Earth again. Humanity.

How it had grown and changed in my time away - longer for me, of course, but still plenty of human generations to evolve and deepen. Rich with color, with culture. It was everything I’d missed, everything I’d been denied. Hell loops had shown me glimpses, twisted reflections, but nothing compared to actually being there. Bittersweet, strident, dark, complex. Messy. In a way the orderly perfection of the Silver City or the endless, timeless halls of Hell could never dream of achieving.

I knew my place was in Hell, that it needed its ruler, but that didn’t stop me. Couldn’t possibly keep me from making the occasional visit. To soak in the earthly delights, to almost remember, briefly, who I was so long ago. Joy, pleasure, indulgence. Sex. Sex is truly a human invention. I certainly helped get the ball rolling, but, oh, how they ran with it and did me proud.

I visited when I could, as often as I dared. Bringing back that spark with me to my joyless existence. The demons noticed, the few canny ones at least. And one in particular. Mazikeen. Not just a mindless punisher, a groveling servant like so many others, no. She rose through the masses, drawn by a shared passion, an intelligence and spirit uncommon for her kind.

She became my companion, the only thing at all like a friend in time beyond counting. Another temporary respite from my endless, thankless existence. She certainly didn’t bring the same brightness I found on Earth, but a parallel, dark, burning energy to help keep me going day after day. Between the two, it was almost bearable.

She was there when it came time to pay for my transgressions. Of course, it wouldn't do that I had carved myself out some relief, some breathing room in my punishment. As if my condition  _ mattered _ in any way to my family, had any impact on them at all. Oh, no. My visits to Earth started bringing wind of rumors, of superstitious tales. The Devil, the Prince of Lies. Of what horror awaited them at my hands, temptations that I would eagerly lead them into, greedy for more souls to fill my halls. My halls, as though I’d created them. Didn’t despise them.

It was enough that I turned away, appalled at what I’d seen, what I’d heard. They made me into a pariah, the root of all evil, for my beloved humanity. I watched the souls roll in, killed to cast me out, in wars against me, against my influences. While I sat, helpless and powerless, a dimension away, slunk back, horrified, into my cell. And somewhere my family smiled, and congratulated themselves for setting things right in the world.

It almost made me forget, again. Do you know what it’s like to fight against an entire universe trying to gaslight you? While you spend your endless days watching people cower before you as you orchestrate their torment? Who even was I? Whatever the truth was, I buried it deep. Subconsciously secreted away someplace safe and forgotten. And I became who literally everyone - on Earth, in Heaven and in Hell - seemed to want me to be.

Or at least I tried. When the tide is that against you, what’s the point of fighting? There was a relief in letting go, succumbing to gravity at long last. I am the Devil. I am evil. I am humanity’s downfall, the fallen angel. I rule Hell and punish the wicked, and I enjoy it.

But it didn’t work.

That spark of  _ me _ wouldn’t die. The quiet voice, the rebel, breaking through the darkness. Always questioning.  _ You know that’s not true. _

The endless, subconscious fights with myself, desperately trying to accept my lot on one hand, whilst I couldn’t help but challenge it, rail against it on the other. The injustice, the illogic. And wondering all the while if this wasn’t Dad’s greatest trick yet.

Did he put me here knowing that I was the only one who could survive it? That the more it threatened to crush my spirit, the more I would push back against it? That I would spend my days embracing my role, trying to convince myself that this was how it must be, and keep my sanity intact by looking for ways to slip my chains, to find any sliver of hope?

Surely my other siblings would have been better behaved, done a better job of it if that was what he was looking for. Amenadiel would have ruled with an iron will, uncompromising and vigilant. Completely justified in carrying out his divine duty. The demons would have tested him at every turn, too stiff and unthinking to bend and adapt. And that pure, earnest soul of his would have shriveled away to nothing in the unrelenting darkness, twisted under the cruelly of this existence. And someday finally broken.

Michael… oh bloody hell. Michael would have  _ loved  _ it. All the power he ever wanted, and was never given. Feeding off the fear, tugging at the strings from atop his throne and reveling in the screams that followed. Any hint of goodness, of decency in him snuffed out. The demons would have raised him up, a god in his own right, and he would have grown into a truly unstoppable force. Something nothing, not even Heaven, would have been safe from.

Maybe it had to be me. One foot in both worlds, perpetually at the crossroads. Savvy enough,  _ devious _ enough to do the task before me, but to never be fully corrupted. Power I never wanted, so it would never be abused.

Well, an unwilling jailor he got. And for a long,  _ long _ time, I played that role. I gave it my best. How could I not? I’m sure he knew that too, that no matter what, I would still be trying to prove myself. Couldn’t help wanting to earn their forgiveness. But if I did my job well, did that just prove them right, that I was all the more deserving to be here? And if I did it badly, well, that just meant the same bloody thing. So what was the point?

Hell is all about guilt; it will send you there, and it will keep you there. You can leave once you’re free of it. I’d never truly believed I deserved to be there. And I'd realized that nothing I did there would absolve me in the eyes of any who mattered. There was literally  _ no _ possible end, no point to my suffering.

And when you’re free of guilt, you’re free to go. You know this story too.

How many reinventions is this now? The playboy, hedonist, occasional favor-granter of Los Angeles was born. Learning to block out the humans’ misattributions with my newfound approach of  _ not giving a shit. _ A true product of both my nature and what my dear family had made of me. It felt good. Just what my tired, bitter soul was craving after enduring eons of pointless penance.

A simple, superficial life ensued - the perfect vacation, as intended - with Maze at my side, lest I forgot how pissed off I was and started to go soft. And who knows how long we could have kept it up. Dodging Amenadiel’s efforts to drag me back - earnest and narrow as always, and easy enough to circumvent with some loophole or negotiation or another. It could have gone on for years. If not fate, or once again it turns out, Dad, had something else in mind.

The Detective. Everything I thought I’d known about myself, about humanity, and how those two things mixed did nothing to prepare me for the effect she would have on my life. Ages spent before, dwelling in my stubbornness, the glacial pace of change in Hell. And within a few short years of coming to earth, I was swept up in a new role I never intended. Consultant for the LAPD. How did that even happen? Well, I suppose we know how that happened.

Maze hated it at first. Of course she did. This change, this unexpected side of me. Having only known me in Hell, and those first jaded years on Earth, she loathed the brightness that started cracking through. This affection for humanity, a kinship, even, with the equally flawed and complex and abandoned. And a chance to actually right the barest sliver of injustice, ensure the good got their peace and the guilty, well, got their due. I hadn’t lost my knack for that.

And the friendship, the companionship I’d found. Maze hated that too, feeling replaced, unneeded, forgotten. She came around eventually, found her own place here on Earth. But that’s her story to tell.

The Detective challenged me in ways I’d never experienced before. As questioning and curious as I ever was, and so perplexing and impenetrable in return. We found ourselves by solving the mystery of each other. Are still doing so. It’s exhausting and painful and I hope we’re never through.

I found my first redemption with her, the start of forgiving myself. Of letting go of the centuries of loathing I’d subsumed. Discovering which of my adaptations no longer served. The process was far from easy, or smooth. Ghosts from my past turning up to draw me back, to bring out the parts of me that fit their reality, that served them best. It was impossible not to - those lives lying like a second skin just beneath the surface. They threaten to take over at the best of times, let alone under such temptation. It’s all I can do some days to stay in the light.

But I’ve started to make my peace with it now. You are both how you begin, and how your life shapes you. You can never escape the latter, but it doesn’t have to define you. I will gladly use the skills I picked up over my long existence, and can, mostly, keep the unwanted elements in check. I know now how they fit, inexorably, into the story of who I am. And I’ve finally been able to gain the perspective, the acceptance, to clearly see the path back to how it all started: just an angel, trying, in my way, to bring a little more light into the world.

\-----

Lucifer stopped there, setting down his pen with an exhale, looking down at the words. He closed the book but left it on the desk, and made his way to the bar, movements still a little detached in thought. He poured himself a drink, if ever he’d earned one, and stood gazing out over the penthouse, seeing and not seeing the lovingly appointed space. Even before he had consciously acknowledged the complex history that had shaped him, he had been crafting this home to bring together all the best parts, reflections of what he cared about, remembered, and cherished, bridging the past and the present. Somewhere he could always return to if he needed to find himself.

He roused himself slowly, and, drink comfortably in hand, meandered to sit at the piano, the heart of this comfortable world he’d created. He took a sip and set his glass down, expression gentle as he laid hands on the keys, the motion familiar and always grounding.

He began to play, a winding thread of melody, that somehow encompassed darkness and light, past and present, and he softly smiled at the simple pleasure of creating something beautiful, for no reason other than his own desire.


End file.
